


Fight and Flight

by Gwyn_Paige



Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Angst, Battle Scenes, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, Libraries, M/M, Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mystical Creatures, Non-Graphic Violence, Paladins, Pre-Relationship, Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: When Martin joins Tim and Sasha to help take down the strange beasts of the western forest, things don't exactly go according to plan.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936486
Comments: 208
Kudos: 414





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: Malevon did some [gorgeous fanart](https://malevon.tumblr.com/post/635186231179870208/for-a-long-still-moment-jon-could-neither-think) for chapter 2 of this fic! Spoiler alert, you should definitely read chapter 2 before clicking, but once you're done please go enjoy her beautiful art!!
> 
> This fic is part of my ongoing paladin Martin/angel Jon series. If you haven't read any of the other fics in this series, I highly suggest you read at least one of them, since this fic may be confusing otherwise.
> 
> As you can probably tell, this fic is a bit different from the others in the series. Please heed the tags and the content warnings in the chapter notes!
> 
> As promised, here is a much more plot-heavy fic for this series that moves the overall story along. I tried some . . . new things with this one, at least compared to the kind of stuff I usually write, so it'll be interesting to see what people think.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for chapter one: mentions of blood and depictions of violence towards humans and fantasy animals.

“Alright,” Tim said, tossing another coin on the pile, “I’ll match that. Show your cards, if you’re so sure you can beat me.”

Sasha glanced up at him coyly from behind her fanned out hand of cards. Taking her time, she flipped them over one by one, laying them out in the dirt. “Swords across the board,” she said, grinning.

Tim grinned back. “Hmm. Not bad, James, not bad. Not much that can beat that hand. But,” he said, as Sasha’s smile faded slightly, “there is _one_ thing that can—”

 _“No,”_ Sasha groaned, “no way you’ve got—”

With a flourish, Tim laid his cards down, as elegantly as he could when the only table he had at his disposal was a patch of dirt. “Five hearts,” he said. “Read them and weep, your highness.”

“Thank you, Tim, I _will_ ,” Sasha said, putting her head in her hands, but Tim could tell that she was laughing. She waved a hand at the considerable pile of coins between them. “Go on, take my gold, before I can change my mind. Or accuse you of cheating.”

Tim pocketed the lot with a victorious grin, knowing that Sasha would probably have it all back by the end of their next round. A two-person card game wasn’t ideal when there were wagers involved, but there were only so many ways they could pass the time with just the two of them, staked out in the middle of nowhere, a stone’s throw from the western forest. Tim would have done pretty much anything to avoid thinking about it, or what lay within the deep foliage that challenged anything, including light, to pass through it.

Still, he had come here to do a job, and unfortunately that job paid well enough for him not to ask any questions. He’d never actually seen the western forest before he and Sasha had arrived two days ago, and he was starting to regret not asking their employer just _how_ dangerous this job would be.

The only details Lord Elias Bouchard had given them were that they were to eliminate the beasts that had recently begun stalking the edge of the western forest. No caveats, no exceptions, just—kill any beast they saw.

If their employer had been a local mayor or guardsman, Tim would have assumed the job was for the sake of the neighboring towns, which were under constant threat these days. But Tim had done his research, and he knew that Lord Bouchard was rich, eccentric, and far too comfortable, a terrible combination if you asked Tim. Bouchard was not the sort of man to pay any kind of money, let alone a good amount, for the sake of some tiny collection of remote villages out on the far edges of the kingdom. There was something else at play here, and now that Tim was looking the forest square in its shadowy, mysterious face, he was more suspicious than ever.

Not for the first time since their arrival, he felt glad for Sasha’s company. She was a master archer and a fairly powerful paladin, and Tim honestly didn’t know what he’d do without her in his corner. Certainly the last three jobs they’d partnered up for had been rounding successes, and he was hopeful that this one would be no different.

He was also looking forward to their rendezvous with another fighter Tim had recommended for the job, who he was expecting to arrive any time now. Tim had fought with him a few times before, years ago, and he’d been an invaluable ally on the battlefield, as well as an excellent bruiser. Tim also happened to know that, like Sasha and himself, he was in need of coin.

As Tim was collecting the cards to shuffle the deck again, he and Sasha were startled out of their game by a nearby shout:

“Room for one more?”

Tim looked up and, sure enough, emerging from the trees that bordered their little campsite was Martin Blackwood, paladin armor shining in the late-afternoon sunlight, looking travel-weary but glad to see them.

“Martin!” Tim jumped up and spread his arms wide in greeting, letting Martin crush him in a bear hug. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Martin said, pulling back and smiling at him. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

“Always,” Tim said, with a wink. “But for that, you really should thank my associate.” He gestured at Sasha, who had risen to join them. “Martin Blackwood, Sasha James. Paladin, markswoman, card player extraordinaire.” He paused. “Most of the time.”

Sasha gave Tim a good-natured swat on the arm. “Don’t listen to him,” she said to Martin, “I’m _always_ a good card player, it’s just that sometimes I’m unlucky. Pleasure to meet you, Martin. Any friend of Tim’s is a friend of mine.” She threw him a glance. “Most of the time.”

Martin laughed. “Nice to meet you too, Sasha.”

Tim grinned. Those two, he was sure, were going to get along fine.

A few hours and several lost rounds of cards later, the sun had gone down, and the three of them were huddled around the campfire, eating their rations and trying to fill the countryside’s oppressive silence.

“Well, Martin, welcome to the team,” Tim said, “for what it’s worth. Three mercs starving for coin isn’t much, but it’s what Bouchard was looking for, apparently.”

“Right,” Martin said, but at the mention of their job he seemed anxious. “Do . . . either of you know anything about the beasts? Other than what everyone knows.”

Tim shook his head. “Bouchard was no help. He just wants them dead. Honestly I think he’s hiding something. Why would someone who lives in the Capitol even care about a few spooked villagers all the way out here?”

“We’ve been watching the forest for days,” Sasha said. “It’s just like the rumors say: huge beasts, stalking like they’re ready to pounce, but they never actually go for the kill.” She took a bite of her jerky and chewed thoughtfully. “It’s as though they’re hunting without finishing the job.”

“Hmm,” was all Martin said, as he stared into the fire.

Sasha went on. “Now we’re all here, there’s nothing we can do except . . . finish our own job, I suppose. We’ll start at first light, head down to the clearing nearest the forest, draw them out from there.”

“Sasha, you know how I love it when you strategize,” Tim said, grinning.

“Honestly, I just don’t want to go any closer to the forest than I have to,” Sasha said, lightheartedly, but there was an edge to her voice that Tim empathized with completely. Drawing them out, he agreed, was infinitely better than following them into their domain.

“Sounds like as good a plan as any,” said Martin. “Just . . . we should be careful. We’re dealing with something . . . weird, here.”

Tim and Sasha nodded in agreement. For once, Tim didn’t feel like cracking a joke.

Appropriately, Sasha chose that moment to sacrifice some of her meal to her angel, tossing a bit of meat onto the fire, and mumbling something Tim couldn’t make out. He tried not to pry when it came to paladin-related matters; it was a private thing for Sasha, and the least he could do was respect that and not bombard her with questions. He knew that she followed an Angel of Curiosity, and that was about it.

Sasha’s sacrifice seemed to have jogged Martin’s memory, because once she was finished, Martin did the same. Tim waited for the food to burn away, then said, “So, Martin, you’re a full-fledged paladin now? Last time I saw you, you were in training.”

“Not anymore,” Martin said, puffing his chest a bit. “I went to the ceremony last year, and it went . . . ah, very well.”

“Well done,” said Tim, meaning it. He’d met plenty of paladins, usually in taverns half drunk out of their minds, and he was just glad to know that there were paladins like Sasha and Martin out there, too, who truly deserved it.

“Congratulations,” Sasha said warmly. “I did mine about . . . three years ago, now. I was so nervous, you have no idea, but—”

“But,” Tim interjected, “it went swimmingly. I was watching from the sidelines, and she was amazing. Very regal, very impressive.”

“Tim . . .”

“ _Sasha._ She was, Martin, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Martin barked out a laugh. “Sounds like you’ve got a fan, Sasha.”

Even in the firelight, Tim could see Sasha roll her eyes. “He just feels bad because he took all my gold earlier.”

This was only partly true, but Tim didn’t elaborate. He wasn’t exactly thrilled by the idea of discussing his long-standing crush right before a job—or right in front of Martin, for that matter.

“Actually,” Martin went on, “if you don’t mind me asking . . . who is your angel?”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call them _my_ angel,” Sasha said, giving him an odd look, “but I follow the Angel of Curiosity.” She pointed at the small tattoo of the symbol of a winding, twisted arrow that adorned her right shoulder, the white ink stark against her dark skin. “What about you?”

“The Angel of Written Knowledge,” Martin said, smiling slightly.

That meant about as much to Tim as the Angel of Curiosity did, but it clearly meant something to Sasha. She sat bolt upright, and leaned across the fire towards Martin, as though she’d just stumbled onto a conspiracy. “The Angel of—Martin, when did you say you did your ceremony?”

“. . . Last year.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Sasha clapped a hand to her cheek. “So . . . so _you_ were the one—?”

“With the moths, yes,” Martin said, amused. “That was me.”

“ _Shit_ , Martin, you should have said something!” Sasha said. “I think I’ve heard stories about that day from every single paladin I’ve spoken to in the past year. Pretty sure most of them weren’t even there, and they heard it from other paladins. You’re practically famous.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim cut in, “but could someone please explain what in the _world_ either of you are talking about.”

All in a rush, Sasha told him about the bizarre event at last year’s paladins’ ceremony, where an angel had accepted their paladin with a gathering of moths. No one had ever seen anything like it before, and news of the spectacle had spread to neighboring kingdoms. Even stranger, nobody knew who this mysterious paladin was: an unknown name from an unknown village, who had walked away without a word as soon as the ceremony was over.

“Really,” Martin said modestly, when Sasha was done, “I just didn’t want to talk to anybody.”

“So it’s all true?” Sasha said. “The moths, and everything?”

Martin nodded.

Sasha whistled. “Well then. Congratulations, Martin. That must have been something.”

“It was . . . definitely unexpected.”

To Tim, this all sounded like the same sort of weird magic that cropped up around angels and paladins all the time. Still, now that he was paying attention, he could see that, in the shadows beyond the firelight, there was a movement above Martin’s left shoulder. If he squinted, he could just about make out the shape of a fluttering creature that looked a lot like a moth. Or, no—there were at least two of them that he was able to spot, lingering near Martin, just out of sight.

“So,” Tim asked, though he suspected he already had his answer, “how has the paladin life been treating you?”

“It’s been . . .” Martin paused, and for a moment he seemed a hundred miles away. Then he looked back at Tim with a casual smile, and said simply, “It’s been good.”

Tim grinned at him knowingly, but said nothing more on the matter.

Later that night, as the three of them were preparing to hunker down for one last night of sleep before battle, Tim noticed that although Sasha was praying silently by her bedroll, Martin was nowhere to be seen. After poking around for a bit, Tim finally found him, a few minutes’ walk from camp. He was sitting on a rocky outcropping overlooking the eastern countryside, away from the shade of the trees, the full moonlight shining on him. His back was to Tim, but Tim could see that he was writing something on a piece of parchment, and he could hear Martin murmuring softly, though there was no one else to be seen. In the moonlight, it was impossible not to notice the six or seven moths that fluttered around him, like an odd, chaotic little halo.

As quietly as he could, Tim turned around and headed back towards camp, deciding that he wouldn’t mention it come morning.

* * *

The three of them rose early, and dismantled their camp with a speed that would have surprised Tim if he hadn’t been as anxious to get this over with as Sasha and Martin were. The sooner the beasts were dead and the sooner they could put miles between them and the forest, the better.

There wasn’t much talk as they headed down to the small clearing at the edge of the forest that Sasha had mentioned the night before. As they approached it, Sasha signaled for them to crouch down into the brush. Hopefully, they would see whatever lurked in the dark canopy of the western forest before it saw them. There was no movement yet that Tim could see, but he knew from his experience of the last few days that that wouldn’t last.

“I’ll draw them out as they show up,” Sasha said to them, keeping her voice low. “Martin, you can rush them, and I’ll stay back here where I’ve got a clear shot.”

“Alright,” Martin whispered. “Tim, you follow and stay behind me. Sound good?”

Tim nodded. With Martin’s heavier armor and formidable greatsword, he was probably an even better shield than the actual shield Tim was carrying.

With a strategy at the ready, there was nothing for them to do but wait for their targets to make an appearance. Well, there was nothing for Tim to do, anyway. Sasha and Martin both took the opportunity to pray. Sasha did what she always did, which was bow her head slightly and put a hand on her right shoulder, over her tattoo. Her mouth moved silently, and as always, Tim did not try to read her lips.

Martin prayed differently, though: he did not bow his head, just sat there in the grass and closed his eyes, as though meditating. Just as he had done last night, he was mumbling under his breath, though Tim couldn’t make out the words. And just like the night before, a handful of moths that had been following Martin around all morning had congregated around him, as though they were pets of some sort.

Tim knew that every paladin communed with their angel differently, but there was something . . . strange about Martin’s praying. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help it; Martin just didn’t _look_ right. Well, in most ways he looked the same as he always did, with the same face and hair and clothes. But there was something about the way the light hit him, or the way the air shimmered around him, that disquieted Tim. It was as though there was some kind of aura or magic surrounding him, although Tim knew next to nothing about auras or magic. All he knew was that when he glanced back at Sasha again, she looked completely normal. Whatever it was, it was only affecting Martin.

Tim didn’t have time to question Martin about it, though, because a moment later, he spotted something moving in the shadows of the forest. He nudged Sasha and Martin, jolting them out of their prayers, and pointed emphatically at the shape moving through the trees.

It was only a silhouette, but Tim could tell that it was four-legged, and it seemed to be moving in an almost cat-like fashion. A large cougar, maybe, or a mountain lion, though Tim didn’t know why something like that would be living in a forest. Whatever it was, it was big. Too big to be an ordinary animal.

For a moment, the three of them shared a look, as if to say, _Well, here goes nothing._

And with that, Sasha notched an arrow and fired a shot, straight and true, directly at the shadow’s head.

Its reaction was immediate, its body tensing up and its head swinging around, trying to find the source of the attack. Just as Sasha had intended, it followed the direction the attack had come from, and leaped out of the forest and into the clearing.

In the bare mid-morning sunlight, what had looked like a large, shadowy cougar could now plainly be seen as the sort of thing Tim would be waiting to see in his nightmares for the rest of his life. Its sheer size alone made Tim freeze in his boots; it was nearly double his own height, and just as wide. Its shape was similar to that of a large cat, with a long, swishing tail and clawed feet, but that was where the similarities ended. Its jaw was distended and filled with razor-sharp teeth, and two gigantic fangs hung down from its jowls. Its fur was matted and a dirty-brown color, as though it had been rolled in mud. The only parts of it that weren’t the color of muck were its yellowed teeth and two narrowed, hateful, glowing red eyes.

Upon leaping out into the open, it opened its unhinged jaw even wider and roared. In the trees above and around the clearing, there was a great cacophony as birds took flight and did the most sensible thing one could do in that moment, which was get the fuck _out_ of there.

“It . . . looks a lot bigger up close,” Tim murmured.

“Yeah,” said Sasha. “But there’s three of us and one of it.” Silently, she notched another arrow. “How about it, Martin?” she said, tossing him a grin.

Martin already had a hand on his greatsword. “Tim?”

Well, if he had to go out, Tim thought, what a team to go out with. “Lead the way, Martin.”

And with that, Martin stood up and charged into the clearing, his greatsword at the ready, heading straight for the monster.

Unfortunately, Tim was a man of his word, so he hefted his sword and shield, and ran in after him.

For a few minutes, everything was a blur of fur and blood and steel. Martin set about slashing at the monster’s ankles, while Tim defended him from the monster’s claws and teeth and took jabs at the thing’s softer underbelly. All the while, Sasha’s arrows whizzed overhead, aimed at the monster’s eyes and face.

Tim quickly found himself entering the familiar rhythm of battle: dodge, slash, hit, slash again, miss, block, dodge, slash, ad infinitum. True, his foe was bigger than he was used to, and he had to dodge wickedly sharp claws as well as fangs, but he and Martin were handling themselves just fine, considering the circumstances.

Martin, in particular, seemed to be doing remarkably well. Even when Tim couldn’t defend him in time from the scrape of sharp claws, Martin would dodge expertly out of the way, or the attack would simply glance off his armor. Several minutes into the fight, while Tim was slightly bloodied and bruised, Martin still looked completely fine.

Tim knew that Martin was a good fighter, a great fighter, in fact, but no one, not even a paladin, was that lucky.

In the midst of the fight, just as the beast was starting to weaken, Martin began hacking at one of the beast’s fore legs, and it seemed to have had enough. It lunged at him, jaw unhinged and fangs bared, snarling furiously. Tim, who was busy dealing with one of the hind legs, cried out a warning, but Martin was too slow to dodge, and Tim could only watch in horror as the beast prepared to take a bite out of Martin’s armor and, presumably, Martin himself.

But then it . . . didn’t. Its jaw simply stopped, a foot from Martin’s face, as though halted mid-air by an invisible shield. There was a flash of _something_ , just for a moment, and Tim wasn’t entirely sure that it wasn’t a trick of the light, but to him it almost looked like a wing, spread out in the space between Martin and the beast’s futilely snapping jaw.

A split second later, the strange vision was gone, and the beast lunged forward again, but the interruption had given Martin the time to dodge out of the way. He then swung his greatsword in a wide arc, cleaving directly through the beast’s snout, scattering its teeth and sending blood splattering over the grass.

The beast howled in pain, and threw its head back away from Martin, sending more blood pouring out of the now gaping wound in its face.

Before Tim had the chance to fully process everything that had just occurred, he heard Sasha yell from her cover, “Back away from it! I’m going to put that thing out of its misery.”

Tim and Martin both did as they were told, putting several meters of distance between them and the beast, and a moment later a bright, flaming arrow flew through the clear blue sky and embedded itself directly between the beast’s eyes.

The fire began to spread over its body unnaturally quickly, and Tim could only assume it was magical fire of some sort, granted to Sasha by her angel. He and Martin could only stand and watch as the beast was engulfed in flame, roaring in pain until, at last, it slumped to the ground, and was silent.

Tim gasped for breath, not realizing he’d been holding it for the past minute or so. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Martin lean heavily on the hilt of his greatsword, apparently just as relieved.

“Well,” Sasha said, emerging from the bushes and approaching the beast’s smoldering body, “that wasn’t so bad.”

“Speak for yourself, madam archer,” Tim teased, but he knew he sounded distracted. He couldn’t get the image of the beast’s maw suspended in mid-air before Martin out of his head. He’d never seen or even heard of a paladin having that kind of magic before. “Martin,” he said, “what exactly was that, back there?”

Martin turned to look at him quizzically. “What was what?”

“When that thing tried to—”

But Tim was cut off by Sasha’s cry of, “There’s another one!”

Tim and Martin spun around to look back at the forest. Sure enough, another shadowy figure was stalking through the bushes on the northern side. It looked even bigger than the first one had been.

Tim gripped his sword. “Alright,” he said, “I think I’ve got a few more in me.”

“Same here,” said Martin.

“Wait,” Sasha said, mounting worry in her voice. “There’s . . . there’s a second one. Over there, look.”

Another huge figure was moving through the trees to join the first. Before Tim could react, he spotted yet another one on the southern side, heading towards its brethren. Then he saw a fourth, and a fifth, moving steadily and threateningly close to the place where the edge of the forest met the clearing.

“That’s . . .” Sasha’s voice was hoarse.

“That’s too many,” said Martin.

There was something else, too. In the area of the forest almost directly in front of them, Tim could see another shadow, separate from the others, that definitely hadn’t been there when the fight had begun. Unlike the other silhouettes, it wasn’t moving, but that wasn’t the strangest thing about it.

It was a humanoid figure. Bipedal, with two arms, standing upright. They looked to be of average height, weaponless and shieldless, without any telltale bulk of armor. And behind them, also completely still, as though waiting for the right moment to strike, stood a monstrous-looking, four-legged shadow that was far, far bigger than the other beasts.

Fuck this, Tim thought. Better to be unpaid than dead.

 _“Run,”_ said Tim.

They did, fleeing for the cover of the woods as though—well, as though several monsters were on their heels. Almost immediately, Tim heard the pounding gait of something behind them, giving chase. It sounded like only one something, at least. He didn’t dare slow down or look behind to check, but he could see that Sasha and Martin were still safely in his periphery.

Until suddenly, Martin wasn’t.

 _“Martin!”_ Tim skidded to a stop, only a few meters from the edge of the clearing, and Sasha followed suit, notching an arrow as she did. Tim swung around, unsheathing his sword, only to see a huge, wolf-like creature standing before them, yellow eyes narrowed and dirty-white fur bristling, with an unconscious Martin hanging from its maw.

Martin’s luck, it seemed, had run out.

With a snarl, the wolf-thing opened its mouth and dropped Martin to the ground, where he landed hard in a pool of his own blood. Teeth marks that looked more like knife wounds littered his torso. Tim couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

Several things happened in very quick succession.

Two of Sasha’s arrows sprouted from the wolf-thing’s eyes, causing it to yelp in pain and back away from Martin’s body, blinded and confused.

Before Tim or Sasha could take a step towards Martin, they were both nearly felled by the sound of a blood-chilling scream. It was not the roar of a beast, nor any sound a human could possibly make. It was all-encompassing, an otherworldly, wordless cry of pure despair and fear and pain. Tim doubled over, unable to tell if he was screaming himself or not, for the sound blocked out everything else. He could feel it in his bones, in his teeth. He could not tell where it was coming from, or what kind of creature could make such a sound, only that it was the saddest, most horrible thing he’d ever heard.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the cry was silenced, only to be followed immediately by a great cracking sound, like that of a rock splitting open.

Tim and Sasha could only stare, shell-shocked and dumbfounded, as . . . _something_ appeared next to Martin’s body. It looked like a human, but it was far too tall, and two great wings sprouted from its back. Moth wings. Distantly, in the back of his mind, Tim was afraid he knew what it was.

The angel, if that was what it was, seemed distraught as it knelt down to hold Martin in its arms, almost embracing him. One of its hands brushed through his hair. Not even sparing a glance towards Tim or Sasha or the wolf-thing that still lurked nearby, it spread its wings wide and wrapped them around Martin’s bleeding body, shielding it from view.

Not a second later, with a flash of light and the sound of thunder, Martin and the angel were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> No promises, but based on my current pace, the next chapter will very likely be up before the end of October, or very soon after.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you all so, so much for your patience in waiting for this chapter. I had no idea it would take me so long to get this section done, but here it is, at last.
> 
> Secondly, since it took me so much longer than expected to get this part done, I wanted to post a chapter now to give you guys an update, but this fic isn't complete yet! There will be a third chapter that finishes off this little "episode" of the series.
> 
> I'll not delay this any further - please enjoy the second chapter!
> 
> Content warnings for chapter two: non-graphic descriptions of wounds, lots of mentions of blood.

_Martin._

The word cut through Jon’s mind like a blade, as painful as the maw that closed around Martin’s torso as the beast dragged him away from his friends, so close to escape. Jon felt every fang slicing through Martin as though he were the one being bitten, but all the pain was overshadowed by the sensation of Martin falling, bloodied and unconscious, to the ground, and Jon heard himself cry out in wordless, frenzied panic as he threw himself through the planar barrier, daring it to stop him.

It did not.

He did not care to consider why, just as he did not care to consider why it didn’t stop him when he returned a moment later, kneeling on the floor of his library with Martin in his arms, shrouded by his wings.

For a long, still moment, Jon could neither think nor do anything except grip Martin tightly to his chest, as though proximity alone could heal his wounds. He could feel Martin’s shallow breath where his face was pressed against Jon’s shoulder. Warm blood from his wounds seeped onto Jon’s robes and his wings, and dripped onto the floor of the library. Deep in his own chest, Jon could feel an echo of Martin’s heart beating, faint but insistent. _Don’t stop,_ was all Jon could think. _Please, don’t let him—_

The thought snapped him back into focus. _No._ No, that was not going to happen, not to his Martin, not today.

Jon’s wings trembled as he opened them, sending drops of blood scattering onto the nearby bookshelves, staining priceless tomes that Jon didn’t spare a thought for. His moths, who had been hovering curiously nearby, began to swarm with panic upon seeing Martin’s limp and wounded body in Jon’s arms, jolting back and forth above their heads, wanting to help but unsure how.

Jon clutched Martin even tighter, knowing he could not feel it, too afraid of him somehow slipping away to care about the sudden spike of pain that went through him. Closing his eyes, Jon reached deep within himself to summon whatever remaining power he had. Traveling so quickly back and forth between the planes had drained him considerably, but that didn’t matter. It _couldn’t_ matter. Somewhere, somehow, Jon had to find enough power to heal Martin. That was the way it had to be.

The moths hovered closer as Jon channeled every bit of power he had into closing Martin’s wounds. He was unpracticed at healing at the best of times, and now there was so much blood and pain clouding his thoughts. Still there was one word that rose, clear and sharp, above all the muddled panic in Jon’s head: _Martin._

Behind that word there was so much warmth, so much affection; a year’s worth of associations, though it felt more like a lifetime. Jon, with all that was available to him, had never loved a word so much. He repeated it aloud, not unlike a prayer, focusing his power further with each syllable: _“Martin.”_

For a moment, it almost seemed to be working; he could sense the wounds beginning to close, though they did so agonizingly slowly. Gritting his teeth, Jon tried to speed up the healing, but what was left of his power was a mere trickle now. Still, he pushed it further. After all, Jon didn’t need any of it. Martin had given it to him, _sacrificed_ it to him, and now Jon was returning it, damn whatever Martin had said by the campfire that night. If Jon’s power couldn’t be used to help Martin, what was the point of having power at all? _I don’t want it,_ Jon thought feverishly, as though it would force his power to intensify. _Take it, take it, it’s yours, it’s yours._

But Martin’s wounds still bled, staining Jon’s clothes a horrible red and dripping onto the floor. His breath grew shallower, and his heartbeat was faint and erratically fast.

Panic, raw and sudden and terrible, rose like bile in Jon’s throat. It wouldn’t be enough. All the power at his disposal wouldn’t be enough, not to save—

“No,” he said aloud, almost choking on the word. _“No.”_ His Martin was strong, and alive, and warm, and he would not die today. Jon was the Angel of Written Knowledge, and more importantly he was Martin’s angel, and he would not _allow it_.

“Something,” Jon said, desperately reaching out to the library with his mind, “something, there has to be _something_ —”

Almost instantly he Knew how best to bandage the wounds, borrowing the knowledge from a dozen different sets of healers’ notes. He also Knew, according to them, that Martin was likely beyond help.

He didn’t care.

Gently as he could, he lowered Martin to the floor, laying him down on his back. Kneeling over him, Jon carefully moved aside the broken pieces of his armor, and then the shredded tunic beneath. He felt his wings convulse at the sight: Martin’s torso was covered in dozens of knife-like wounds, formed in a vague crescent shape where the beast’s maw had closed around him.

Insensate though he was, Jon wanted so badly to comfort Martin, to take him back into his arms and shield him from the world with his wings, to let him wake somewhere gentle and safe.

But there was no time. For lack of proper bandages, Jon began ripping off pieces of his own robes. Before long, he had wrapped several of them tightly around Martin’s torso, but the cuts were deep, and the strips of cloth were quickly saturated with blood. Even as he tied off the final piece of cloth, Jon’s shaking hands grew slick with it, slipping on the knot.

Martin’s face had grown unnaturally pale. Moths hovered close to his closed eyes and nestled in his hair, silently urging him to wake up, but he did not stir.

“Something else,” Jon mumbled, to the moths or himself, he didn’t know. “I’ll try something else, then—”

But there was nothing else. A collection of written knowledge going back centuries, the pride and culmination of Jon’s existence, and there was nothing there that could help Martin. The library held no amenities for potions or medicine, and Jon had no more power and no more time.

 _Mortals die,_ a page from an ancient book of philosophy told Jon, uselessly. _It is the way of things. Though there may be beings of eternal life, we are not among them. Acceptance of this is vital, lest we forget what makes us—_

“Oh, shut up,” Jon said, and abruptly stood, flaring his wings wide. If his library could offer no help, he would have to find a solution himself. Perhaps it was too late to give Martin more time, but power . . . power was another story.

Jon cast his gaze over to the fireplace in the corner of the room, which blazed with a bright orange flame that never went out. It was more of an aesthetic choice than a practical one, as neither Jon nor the moths had any need for warmth.

Still, Jon knew for a fact that it would burn paper just fine.

Though every part of him wished to stay at Martin’s side, Jon pulled himself towards the nearest shelf and took a handful of books into his arms, staining their covers red, uncaring what their titles might be or what knowledge they contained. Whatever it was, none of it could be as important as Martin’s life. Hefting their weight with ease, he brought them over to the fireplace.

By now, Jon knew the sorts of things Martin said when he made sacrifices. Even in his panicked state, above the fear and pain, he could hear Martin’s voice in his head, calmly reciting a prayer. He had always addressed Jon directly, and it was always a request, asking Jon to accept the offering. As though Jon would ever deny him.

Standing before the flames, Jon lifted the stack of books, and took a breath. In the back of his mind, he knew this was somewhat mad. Angels did not sacrifice to paladins. He had no idea if this would work. By all restrictions of nature and reason, it _shouldn’t_ work.

And yet, Jon’s stubborn heart reiterated, it had to.

“Martin Blackwood,” said Jon, “please accept this sacrifice,” and he cast the books into the fire.

He wasted no time lingering over the fireplace as the books steadily burned. Almost at once, Jon was back at Martin’s side, where a great number of moths had gathered, alighting near his body, keeping him company, trying to comfort an unconscious man. Jon leaned over him, hands half-reaching out, wanting to take him into his arms again but knowing it would only harm him further.

Martin did not stir. His chest still rose and fell, but the movement was so small as to be barely detectable.

Jon waited, unblinking, unmoving.

Several long seconds passed. The bleeding did not stop. The wounds did not close.

Carefully, Jon leaned forward, taking one of Martin’s hands in his own, still slick with blood, clutching it as tightly as he dared. Martin’s hand was far too cold, the pulse in his wrist far too faint.

There was nothing else. The books had done nothing, and now there was nothing else, and for one blinding, hideous moment, Jon wanted to burn the whole bloody library down, except of course that wouldn’t save Martin, not even if he sacrificed the entirety of his—

Wait.

Jon’s head shot up, disturbing several moths that were hovering anxiously over his shoulder.

The books had done nothing—of course. Of course, they hadn’t, because they had _meant_ nothing.

Significant power required significant sacrifice. Jon’s library was valuable to him, of course, but there was nothing in it he valued more than—

Something burned in Jon’s chest that felt remarkably like hope. With a thought, the bookshelves nearest to him began to shift, rapidly replacing the cartography section that had been there with the true prizes of Jon’s collection.

The volumes of Martin’s poetry were worn in a way no other books in Jon’s collection were. Their spines, lovingly bound, were just as lovingly warped; their pages were curled at the edges; their once-black ink was faded. By now, Jon knew by heart each stroke Martin’s quill had made on the paper, the words mattering less than the comfort of their presence when Martin himself was unreachable. The poems were only fragments of Martin, less than the sum of their parts, but they were a gift Martin had given him freely, twice over now, and Jon adored and cherished them.

He adored and cherished their author more.

Jon reached out to the bookshelf and took the volumes in his arms, holding them close to his chest, wishing he could do the same with his paladin. If he was wrong about this, not only would he lose Martin, but everything he had left of him. His beautiful words would be burned away forever, lost and forgotten. Unknown.

And yet, somehow, when Jon looked back down at Martin, fading but still breathing, there was no uncertainty. This would not be for nothing. Martin would live, and he would write hundreds more poems, and Jon would memorize every single one.

He wasted no more time returning to the fireplace, several moths following in his wake, the words already forming in his mouth as the volumes most dearest to him tumbled into the flames: “Martin,” he said, his voice barely a murmur, “please accept this sacrifice.”

This time, as the poetry caught fire, he felt something. There was a twinge, somewhere deep in his chest, where Martin’s heartbeat still echoed faintly. Like a thread being tugged on, guiding him, almost without thinking, back to Martin’s side.

Once again, he knelt next to Martin, wings outstretched over him protectively, bloodied hands reaching out without touching. Staring intently, he could see Martin’s chest still rising and falling. Around and above them, there was the nearly-silent beating of moths’ wings.

For a long, horrible moment, nothing happened. And then—

“Oh,” Jon said, a desperate, raspy sound of pure wonder escaping him as he watched Martin’s wounds begin to close. Slowly at first, but steadily gaining momentum, the teeth marks began to heal over, skin and muscles knitting themselves back together with unnatural speed, and within a minute’s time, as though it had all been only a nightmare, they were gone, leaving behind only blood and shredded cloth. Even the pain, which had been constant since Jon had first felt it, was gone.

“Oh,” Jon said again, lower and quieter as his panic gave way to exhausted relief, “Martin, Martin, you’re alright—” He gathered Martin’s hands in his own and despite the blood he pressed his lips to them, wanting to laugh, joy buzzing through him. He was alright, he was _alright_.

“Martin,” he said again, more insistently, now, because even though Martin was healed, he wasn’t waking up. He looked more closely at Martin’s face, but he was still rather pale, and his eyes did not open.

“Martin?”

Jon’s world dropped away.

Martin was no longer breathing.

Jon pressed his hand to Martin’s chest, but there was no heartbeat and no movement. He drew back, staring into Martin’s closed eyes, his whole body trembling, before pitching forward to gather Martin into his arms again, pulling him into his lap as he had when they’d arrived, feverishly searching for a forgotten wound, a pulse, anything, anything that could be fixed.

There was nothing.

“Martin, Martin, please, wake up—”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew his babbling was pointless, but he could not bring himself to care.

“Please, please—”

A burning sensation rose to the back of Jon’s throat, and something clouded his vision, and as he blinked it away Jon realized that he was crying. He had never done such a thing before.

“Please don’t go,” he said quietly, his voice a wreck.

He curled himself around his paladin, his wonderful, beautiful Martin, who Jon had perhaps never deserved at all. One arm he wrapped tightly around him, trying to hold him even closer, and with the other he clutched Martin’s hand, linking their fingers together.

Martin’s hands had been so warm, the first time he’d held them.

 _This is my fault._ The thought came to him with blinding clarity. _He trusted me. He put all his faith in me and look what I did to him._ _If I had been faster, better, if I had known how to help him—He was my paladin and I failed him, I failed him, I failed—_

Jon shook his head. “No,” he said, voice stronger, even as foreign, unfamiliar tears crawled down his face. He squeezed Martin’s hand, giving him back some warmth. “I’m not giving up on you,” he said to him.

Jon lifted a wing to curl around the two of them, bathing them both in dim green and brown light. “You bowed to me, when we first met,” Jon murmured into the small, quiet space he’d made. “There was no need. I didn’t want it. I just wanted you.” Jon blinked, and a tear fell onto Martin’s shoulder. “But I never did return it, did I?”

Slowly bowing his head, Jon leaned down until his forehead was gently pressed against Martin’s. “There,” he said quietly, closing his eyes. “now we’re even.”

There was a slight, almost imperceptible movement, a twinge of a muscle, but Jon felt it as though it had vibrated through his whole body. Jon opened his eyes and drew back, just in time for Martin to gasp awake in his arms, his body seizing back to life, grasping at Jon’s arm, staring up into his face, disoriented but alive, _alive_.

_Martin._

Still catching his breath, Martin blinked up at him, and murmured, “Jon?”

Jon smiled through something that might have been a sob, and said, with all the affection he knew, “Hello, Martin.”

Martin reached up a shaky hand to Jon’s face, and swiped a thumb across his cheek. He frowned. “You’re crying.”

Jon let out another sob, through laughter this time. “Yes,” he said, smiling so wide that it hurt, “yes, but it’s alright now. Everything’s alright now.” He knew he had to explain further, but he had no more words, no more thoughts except for _Martin_ , so instead he held Martin’s warm, warm hand against his cheek, and pulled him closer as Martin drifted off into an exhausted, ordinary sleep, and as the moths rejoiced around them, Jon buried his face in Martin’s hair, and cried, and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go check out [Malevon's fanart](https://malevon.tumblr.com/post/635186231179870208/for-a-long-still-moment-jon-could-neither-think) if you haven't already!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Again, chapter three is coming, although I've learned my lesson about making deadlines I can't keep. Let's just say it'll be coming soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I just wanna say that I am absolutely blown away by the response to this series. Thank you all so, so much for the wonderful comments and kudos - and special shoutout to all you lurkers out there, I love you and thank you!
> 
> Please enjoy the conclusion of this "episode" of the series!
> 
> Content warnings for chapter 3: brief description of improper chest binding.

He awoke slowly to a pervading warmth surrounding him, and the odd sensation of something brushing against his cheek. His eyelids felt far too heavy to open, so he didn’t, and instead for several long, tired moments merely lay in the strange cocoon of what he supposed must have been blankets, in what he supposed must have been a bed.

In time, which moved sluggishly as he drifted in and out of sleep, the sensation at his cheek began to grow more distinct, and ticklish. He began to wish he could brush it away.

It took him another long moment to realize that he had arms, and could indeed do so.

Slowly, his eyes still closed, he moved his arm through a layer of cloth that, yes, definitely felt like a thin, silky blanket, bringing it up and out where the sensation was still prickling his cheek. Gently, he swiped a finger at it, but before it made contact, the sensation was gone.

Finally, with a begrudging effort, Martin opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was the moth that had been sitting on his cheek fluttering in front of his face, very close to his nose so that he had to cross his eyes a bit to see it clearly. It flew in a sort of loop-the-loop motion, apparently happy to see him, and Martin smiled at it.

“Hello,” he said, but it came out raspy and strange. He cleared his throat. _“Hello,”_ he tried again, and yes, that sounded much better. The moth seemed to agree, landing on his nose for a moment as though to return the greeting.

Martin raised his hand a little further out of the blanket, and offered his index finger, which the moth alighted upon, its antennae twitching happily.

“Wonder what you’re doing here,” Martin said, still rather sleepy. His mind was frustratingly fuzzy at the moment, but he knew that moths meant Jon, and if this one didn’t seem concerned, there was probably no reason to worry.

Still, he was aware enough to know that these were definitely not his blankets. “Where am I,” he said, to no one in particular. As though in answer, the moth fluttered up and away, and as Martin followed its flight, he finally got a look at the place he found himself in.

His immediate thought was that it was one of the messiest rooms he’d ever seen. It wasn’t a small room, but it shrank in the wake of piles and piles of books, stacked haphazardly into uneven towers that looked as though they could be felled by a breeze. Loose papers stuck out of the piles at random, and there was an occasional rectangular piece of wood or stone that could be seen shoved in with the rest of the clutter. Shelves stuffed full of even more books lined every wall, accompanied by scrolls and rolled-up pieces of parchment. There did seem to be the suggestion of furniture, buried underneath the mess: a glimpse of an armchair and a fireplace behind a mountain of books, a table straining under the weight of dozens of what appeared to be maps. And yet there was a kind of hidden, elusive grandeur to it all, the place beautiful, in its strange and charming way, not in spite of the clutter, but because of it.

Whatever this place was, it was certainly not a bedroom, which was perhaps fitting, because Martin was not in a bed. Now that he was more lucid, he could feel that he was lying on top of what felt like several pillows or cushions, arranged beneath him in a facsimile of a mattress to prevent him from lying on what must have been a hard wooden floor. The surrounding clutter seemed to have been moved out of the way to make room for him, but Martin could not guess how the massive, top-heavy piles of books could have been moved without upset. He hoped, absentmindedly, that it hadn’t been too much trouble.

The ceiling was surprisingly high for a room of this size, the stacks of papers and shelves rising up and up and up, though Martin could not see any kind of ladder for reaching the higher shelves, as there was at the library back in his village.

The thought of a library gave Martin pause. Perhaps this was . . . But it was such a bizarre thought that he dismissed it almost immediately. There was no possible way he could be where he thought he was.

Instead, he tried to recall how and why he had gotten here, wherever here was. He remembered vague flashes of being snatched off the ground, and an intense, horrible pain in his midsection. Yes, that was right—he had been wounded by one of the beasts, he could remember that clearly enough from just before he had lost consciousness. Instinctively he moved his hand under the blanket to feel at his torso where the dressings would have been, but there was nothing there. Just a loose-fitting shirt whose fabric felt unfamiliarly soft, and no signs of any healed-over wounds or scars.

Even stranger, when he pulled himself up into a sitting position, leaning back against what he discovered was a veritable mountain of pillows, there was no pain at all. He had been mauled by a giant wolf-thing, and he felt absolutely fine.

Though perhaps _absolutely_ was the wrong word. There was a twinge of discomfort, but not where he had been wounded; higher up, at his chest, there was an unpleasant but familiar tightness. He recognized it immediately as binding that had been done too tightly. It was something that he used to do often by mistake, but it had been well over a decade since he’d learned to bind comfortably, and he was sure he hadn’t done it this way himself when he last left home.

Before he could take off the shirt that wasn’t his and try to fix it, he heard the creaking of an unseen door, somewhere off to his left.

Martin turned his head towards the noise, but a wall of books blocked his view. He was about to call out to ask who was there, and what was going on, but then an all-too-familiar voice beat him to it.

“Martin?”

Jon’s voice, which he would know anywhere, was high and worried, but just the sound of it calmed Martin at once. Jon was here, everything was going to be fine. “Jon?” he called out in turn.

Not a moment later, his angel, flanked by several moths, emerged from between the stacks, slightly harried but a welcome sight nonetheless. His wings were folded away and his robes were simpler than the ones he usually wore, and his braid was undone, his tumble of dark hair hanging long and loose off of one shoulder. As soon as he laid eyes on Martin, his face lit up, bright eyes sparkling and the furrow at his brow gone, traded in for a wide smile. The moths, apparently just as happy to see him, immediately flew over to the makeshift bed, landing on the pillows near Martin’s head.

“Martin,” Jon said again, his voice warm with relief. “You’re awake.” He moved deftly around the stacks to sit on the floor at Martin’s bedside, tucking his robes in neatly under his knees. He reached out a hand towards Martin’s face, but stopped himself halfway. “H-How do you feel?”

“I . . . I’m alright. I think,” Martin said, still confused about his lack of injuries. Clearly _something_ had happened, otherwise Jon wouldn’t be so concerned, but how had—

Jon’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I, ah, I apologize for the accommodations,” he was saying, gesturing at their chaotic surroundings. “This is my . . . spillover room, I suppose you could call it. Everything that can’t be properly categorized. It was the only space I could find with proper privacy.” He glanced pointedly at the moths, who fluttered innocently around them. “ _Some_ people don’t understand that a mortal needs his rest, and having little buzzing creatures around doesn’t help matters.”

Martin wanted to protest and say that really, the moths were welcome company, but he could only process so much at a time. “First things first—Jon, what _happened_? Where are we?”

Jon blinked. “Oh! Oh. Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I forgot—” He shifted his weight awkwardly. “I’ll answer the easier one first. We’re, ah. We’re in my library.”

Martin gave that a moment to sink in. Then he gave it another. Jon’s library was something he had told Martin about a handful of times during his visits, but never in any detail; Jon had seemed largely uninterested in talking about himself, only wanting to learn things about Martin. Which, Martin supposed, made sense; an ethereal, magical library was probably just as pedestrian to Jon as Martin’s own cottage was to Martin.

Still, as he took another sweeping look of the “spillover room,” Martin felt a thrill go through him. This was Jon’s home, of sorts, a piece of him that Martin had never expected, or even hoped, to be privy to.

“Your . . . library?” he said, still staring at the teetering stacks of books, which he now felt sure would never fall unless Jon wanted them to.

“Yes. And, ah, I’m sorry about the . . .” Jon gestured a bit helplessly at the makeshift pile of cushions Martin was all but buried in. As though _that_ was Martin’s biggest concern at the moment. “I—I hope it isn’t uncomfortable. I don’t really have, ah, a bed, of any sort. But I do like to sit on the floor and read sometimes, and I had plenty of pillows, so—” He tugged an anxious hand through the dangling curls of his hair. “I hope this is alright.”

Distractedly, Martin ran his hands over the bedding. The cushions were lumpier than a mattress, but it was still a far cry from sleeping outside on a bedroll. And the blanket Jon had given him, though not built for warmth, was silky and soft, and was a deep, rich violet color that was so unlike the muted colors of Jon’s wings that it made Martin smile, slightly, to imagine Jon curling up underneath it with a good book.

“Well, I’ve definitely had worse.” He smiled at Jon, wanting to rub away the little furrow that had returned to the space between his eyebrows. “Really, Jon, I’m very comfortable.”

“You’re sure?”

 _“Yes,”_ Martin said, forcing himself not to laugh. Of all the things for Jon to be worried about . . . At least Martin knew there were more pressing matters at hand. “So . . . we’re in _your_ library.”

“Yes.”

“And how did _I_ get here?”

“I—brought you here. From the mortal plane.”

“Can you . . . do that?”

Jon broke eye contact. “A-Apparently. I’d never tried before.”

“Alright.” _One thing at a time, Martin._ He took a breath. “ _Why_ did you bring me here?”

Jon paused for a moment, his expression wrought, then reached to take Martin’s hand in his, though it seemed more for his own sake than Martin’s. When he finally spoke his voice was soft. “You, ah—y-you were very badly hurt.”

“So that _did_ happen. That wolf-thing got me. I didn’t dream that up.”

“No. Well, I mean—yes, Martin, it—it was very real.”

Slowly, gently, Jon explained all that had happened since Martin had blacked out, clutching at his hand all the while as though Martin would slip away from him. Martin, for his part, grasped right back, each new development making his stomach churn.

“But burning the books didn’t wake you up either,” Jon was saying, “so I—”

Martin cut him off. “You . . . you tried to _sacrifice_ your books to me?”

“I—” Jon almost seemed apologetic. “Yes. I-It was the only thing I could think to do.”

Martin scoffed, too disquieted to laugh. “I’m not an angel, though. How could that have possibly worked?”

For a moment, Jon just looked at him. Martin’s stomach dropped, slightly. “Jon?”

“It . . . it worked. The sacrifice. I had to try a second time, but it worked. Eventually.” Guilt weighed heavily on Jon’s features, for reasons Martin was too distracted to guess at. “That was what saved you.”

Martin didn’t know what to say. Rather, he did, it just seemed too obvious. He said it anyway. “That isn’t possible.”

Jon’s voice was very quiet. “Apparently it is.”

“I’m not an angel, though.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Power doesn’t _work_ like that. Sacrifices don’t work like that.”

“But thank goodness they did.” Jon took hold of both of Martin’s hands, staring him in the eyes. “If they hadn’t, you—you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Martin wanted to push the matter, but instead let himself soften for a moment, reaching out to brush a thumb under Jon’s worried eye. “I am here, though. Right as rain.”

Jon leaned into his touch, as he always did, but his brow was still pinched with worry. “You’re not in pain, are you? Does anything—”

“I’m fine,” Martin said, rather touched by the fussing. “Really, Jon, I’m alright. There’s no pain.” He was reminded of the tightness at his chest. “Hm. Well, now you mention it . . .”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing bad!” Martin smiled reassuringly, and pressed at his shirt where the bindings were hidden. “ _Someone_ bound my chest a bit too tight, that’s all. Don’t suppose you know the culprit?”

“Oh! Um. Yes,” Jon said, looking sheepish, “sorry about that. Your binding was ripped, and I tried to repair it, but—well. I had to improvise with some of my sewing materials. I—suppose I got overzealous. I can adjust it, if you like.”

“Ah—sure,” said Martin, pulling up his shirt so the binding fabric was visible. Sure enough, it definitely wasn’t the simple, faded white cloth that Martin normally used. This was a vibrant red pattern, as dissimilar from Jon’s colors as the purple blanket was.

As Jon leaned in closer to adjust the binding, Martin marveled at how comfortable he felt about the whole thing. It didn’t feel at all intimate, in the traditional sense, as it would with most people. There was no awkwardness, no self-conscious hesitancy. The way Jon’s eyes narrowed at the stitches on the cloth, trying to find just the right one to loosen, Martin could tell that there was no pretense to it. Just a small kindness, a way of helping, with a set goal to be accomplished. And yet it didn’t feel detached or clinical, either. Jon was so careful and gentle as he tugged a few stitches loose and let the fabric shift into a more comfortable arrangement, letting Martin breathe a bit easier. Jon understood precisely what he was doing, and there was nothing more or less to it than what it was.

Martin let out a demonstrative sigh of relief as Jon leaned back, and he pulled the shirt back down.

“Better?” said Jon.

“Better,” Martin said, “thank you.” Then, cocking his head to the side, “You sew?”

Jon looked at him as though the prospect of an angel who could sew was utterly unremarkable. “Of course. How else would I bind books?”

“Of course,” Martin deadpanned.

“I had to replace your shirt, too,” Jon went on, apologetically. “That, and . . . I-I’m afraid even your armor was in pieces.”

Martin’s stomach turned anxiously again. His armor was by no means flimsy, and it hadn’t taken much for the beast to rip it to shreds. “And my greatsword?”

“That . . .” Jon seemed to search his memory for a moment. “That didn’t come through the barrier with you. I think it fell, when you were . . . attacked. I’m sure your friends must have it, now.”

Martin sat bolt upright. _Tim and Sasha._ They’d been in danger too. He wanted to kick himself for taking this long to remember them. “Do—do you know what happened to Tim and Sasha? Are—are they—”

“Oh, yes—don’t worry, they’re alright,” said Jon. “The moths have been keeping an eye on them.”

Martin fell back against the pillows. “Thank goodness.”

Jon’s gaze unfocused, his eyes clouding over, which Martin recognized as him looking through his moths’ wings. “Apparently they were able to get away from the forest—they’re sitting in a tavern now.” Jon squinted into the middle distance. “I don’t see any injuries. And yes, there it is—one of them has your sword.”

“Good,” Martin said, though he cared less about the sword than about everything else Jon had said. “I . . . I’ll have to get back to them soon. I can’t imagine what they thought they saw, back there, but—they should know I’m alright.”

“O-Of course,” Jon said. “I’ll find a way to send them a message, of sorts.” As his eyes returned to their usual brightness, his expression grew fraught again. “But—you should rest here, I think. For a little while longer. I—I don’t know . . . I’m not sure if . . . if you . . .” Jon struggled for a moment, as though trying to find the right words.

“If I’m completely out of the woods, you mean?” Martin said, gently. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Y-Yes. I know you’re not in pain anymore, but—”

“But I did almost die,” Martin said, lightly. Still, Jon winced, and Martin quickly brought up a hand to smooth down his cheek. “Almost,” he reminded him.

“Right,” Jon said quietly. “But . . . you understand why I’m worried?”

Martin nodded. Honestly, he did feel rather drained, and wouldn’t have minded delving back under the blanket for a few more hours of sleep. Something occurred to him then. “ _Can_ I stay here? In your library? Physically, I mean. I don’t think mortals are usually meant to leave the mortal plane.”

Jon opened his mouth to answer, then shut it. He thought for a moment. “I . . . think so?”

Martin shot him a teasing look. “An Angel of Knowledge, and the best you can do is _I think so_?”

“ _Written_ knowledge,” Jon said, unamused, “and apparently yes, it is, because this sort of thing has never been _written_ about before.” Then, dryly, “The next time someone writes up a detailed account of an angel moving a mortal from one plane to another, I’ll be sure to have it on hand.”

Martin barked out a laugh, which he was pleased to see made Jon crack a smile as well. “Regardless,” Jon went on, “you seem to be doing fine on the ethereal plane so far. I don’t see why that should change.” He paused, casting a soft look at Martin. “And of course, you’re, ah, you’re welcome to stay. A-As long as you’d like.”

Martin smiled at him. “Thanks, Jon.” He couldn’t say he was surprised at the invitation, given all that Jon had done to make his stay comfortable so far, but the hospitality was appreciated. He was already looking forward to exploring the library as soon as he felt ready to get out of bed. Part of him was still in awe of the sheer number of written works in this room alone, and he wanted to read as many as he could get his hands on.

Before he could even begin to think about any of that, however, there was something else about the situation that was nagging at him. “How . . . did you manage to bring me here?” Martin asked. “It must’ve taken a good amount of power.”

Jon’s expression darkened, and he took a deep breath that Martin knew he didn’t really need. “Honestly, I’m . . . not sure about that, either.” He frowned. “There are remarkably few things I’m sure of these days, and I can’t say I’m enjoying it. I _think_ it may have had something to do with my panic, when—when I felt you get hurt.” Jon’s voice broke slightly, but he pushed on. “I . . . I remember _forcing_ the planar barrier open. I wasn’t thinking about power, or the force of the barrier, or—anything, really. Just . . . in that moment, I had to get to you, Martin. I just—I _had_ to.”

The furrow at Jon’s brow had returned in full force, and Martin took hold of one of his hands, but Jon didn’t appear to notice. “I . . . I tried to be quick,” Jon said, distantly, “to get you to safety, so I could help you, but—” His voice broke again, and Martin saw his eyes grow wet. “I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t—”

“You saved me,” Martin reminded him again, squeezing his hand hard. “Jon, you—”

“I almost didn’t,” Jon said, very quietly.

“But you _did_.”

“It was my fault.” Jon’s voice was so small. “If I had reached out to protect you in time, that thing wouldn’t have had the chance to hurt you in the first place.”

“Jon—”

“I am so, so sorry, Martin—”

“Jon.”

“You needed me, and I wasn’t—”

 _“Jon.”_ Martin finally leaned up to grab both sides of Jon’s face, forcing him to look directly into Martin’s eyes. “You’ll forgive me if I tell you that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Jon blinked at him. “What . . . what do you mean?”

“First of all, you _were_ there when I needed you. All throughout the fight. You must’ve saved me from a dozen scrapes and bruises, not to mention that _thing_ almost taking my head off—”

“Yes, I remember, but—”

“ _Second_ of all, even if you _weren’t_ able to be there, I wouldn’t blame you for it.” Martin paused to take a breath, thankful that Jon didn’t interrupt, this time. He went on, his voice measured and slow, “Even if . . . even if you couldn’t protect me, or help out in battle, or do any healing, even if you were the most rubbish angel there was, it wouldn’t matter, not really. Because you’re _you_ , Jon, and you _care_. You care . . . you care about me. A lot. I know that, now. And I know that if you were able, you’d shield me from every living thing in the whole bloody forest. But you can’t. And that’s alright.”

Martin took another deep breath before soldiering on. “I didn’t pledge an oath to you because I needed protection in battle, or prowess, or strength, or—any of the other nonsense you hear at paladins’ ceremonies. I—I pledged an oath to you because ever since I was a kid I’ve loved books, and moths, and knowing things. And reading about you—it felt like I was reading about a long-lost friend, someone who would understand. That was why I chose you. And meeting you, _knowing_ you, I . . . I knew that I was right, to give myself to you. Because you gave yourself right back. You shielded me in battle until you couldn’t, and then you _sacrificed_ your books to save me, Jon. How could I ever blame you for that?”

Martin still held Jon’s face in his hands, and was stroking his thumbs gently over his temples. Jon’s expression was quietly awed, tears threatening to spill over, but before Martin could say or do anything more, his face crumpled, guilt running through every line of his brow, and he pulled away from Martin’s hold, leaning back and looking away.

“Jon?”

“It . . . it wasn’t just my books I sacrificed.”

There was a moment of utter quiet in the library. The moths that had come to rest near Martin’s head did not move their wings.

“Jon,” Martin said softly, “how, exactly, did you save me?”

Jon’s eyes met his, then darted away again. “I . . . th-the first set of books didn’t work. I’d picked them off the shelf at random, I didn’t even know what they were.” Jon laughed humorlessly. “And I suppose I never will, now.” Jon turned back to look at Martin, his expression tearful. “I was desperate, Martin, y-you were bleeding out, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“What did you sacrifice?” Martin kept his voice calm and gentle. It wasn’t difficult; he found, with vague surprise, that he wasn’t at all anxious.

“Your poetry,” Jon said, his voice quiet and heavy. “All of it. It’s gone, I—I can’t remember any of it, I—oh, Martin, I’m so sorry—”

“Jon.” Martin cut him off gently, laying a hand on top of his. Perhaps he should have been upset, and a few months ago he probably would have been, but now . . . now, he was calm, and all he really wanted was to wipe the guilt and regret from Jon’s face. “I gave those poems back to you, remember? They’re yours. You don’t have to apologize to me. _I’m_ sorry that you lost them.” He managed a smile, though Jon didn’t return it. “And I can hardly be angry with you for saving my life. Really, at the end of the day, it’s only poetry.”

“It’s . . . it’s important poetry, though,” Jon protested. “It’s _yours_.”

“Sure,” Martin said, “but like I said the other day: I’ll write more. In fact . . .” Remembering something, he began to search under the covers to find his pockets. Thankfully, his trousers hadn’t been damaged, so he was quickly able to fish out what he was looking for. “There we go,” he said, pulling out the folded up piece of parchment he’d left in his back right pocket the night (or was it two nights?) before. Allowing himself a bit of a triumphant flair, he unfolded the paper and handed it over to a wide-eyed Jon. “The moths wanted a sneak peek,” he said, grinning, “but I wouldn’t let them. It wasn’t ready yet.”

Jon took the paper in his hands with a reverence that, in any other situation, would have been amusing. Silently, his eyes darted across the page, meticulously running along each line. It wasn’t a long poem, barely a page; Martin had just wanted to get some thoughts down, at the time, about comfort and Jon and late nights spent by campfires. In Martin’s opinion, it was far from his best work. Still, Jon lingered on it for a good handful of minutes, rereading it at least three times over.

“This is . . . lovely,” said Jon at last, eyes not leaving the page. “Martin, thank you, I . . . I love it.”

“I was going to sacrifice it at some point anyway,” Martin said, “but this way we’ll both get to remember it.”

Jon raised his eyes to meet Martin’s, and smiled. “Yes. Yes, that will be nice.” Carefully, he smoothed out the creases in the paper, and tucked it into his robe. “I’ll start rebuilding my collection of original Blackwoods immediately.”

For a moment, they shared a laugh, and it might have been wishful thinking, but Martin swore the light in the room grew brighter.

“I never thanked you, did I,” Martin said, as their laughter faded. “For saving me.”

Jon shook his head. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I want to, though.” Once again, Martin took Jon’s hands in his, and looked him straight in the eye. “Thank you for saving me, Jon.” He tried to convey in his tone how much he meant it, how much he’d meant everything he’d said, about the poetry and the bindings and the cushions and Jon himself.

Jon gave an awkward little laugh, and leaned forward to gently knock their foreheads together. “Oh, please,” he said, his tone utterly sincere, “it was no trouble at all.”

* * *

Tim appreciated Sasha for many, many things, and chief among them at the moment was the fact that she wasn’t pointing out that Tim hadn’t stopped bouncing his leg anxiously under the table since they’d arrived at the tavern.

“He’s alright,” Tim said, for what was probably the dozenth time in the last few hours. “He’s got to be. That thing—”

“The angel,” Sasha helpfully supplied, taking a large swig of her ale.

“—the _angel_ must’ve spirited him away somewhere safe. Clearly it cares about him, he’s got to be safe.” Tim went for a sip of his own drink, but then he remembered that it had been an hour since he’d finished it. “Right?”

“Right,” Sasha said. She seemed confident as ever, but he noticed the slight pinch of her eyebrows, which gave away her concern. He also saw the way her gaze swung towards Martin’s greatsword, still covered with dried blood and viscera, leaning up against the third, conspicuously empty chair at their table.

He’ll come back, Tim thought. He’ll come back, safe as houses, and then we’ll all have a laugh about it, and then we’ll go tell that rat bastard Bouchard where he can stick his coin.

The thought almost stopped his leg for a moment. Almost.

“We should probably get ourselves a room,” Sasha said, reaching across the table to rest a hand on Tim’s closed fist. She jerked her head towards the darkening sky outside the tavern windows. “It’s getting too late to travel.”

“. . . Yeah,” Tim conceded, finally pushing his empty mug away. “Yeah, I’ll pay.” He shot her what he hoped was a convincing smile. “I’ve still got your coin from that card game yesterday.” Damn, it really had only been yesterday. Tim felt like he’d aged at least a year.

Sasha smiled back, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “The coin you stole, you mean.”

Their familiar banter was a cold comfort, but Tim was willing to latch onto it anyway. “Hey now, madam archer, don’t go around throwing wild accusations. I earned that stolen coin fair and s—”

The word died on Tim’s tongue as he and Sasha both saw a flash of movement by the empty chair. A moth, pale white, standing out like a sore thumb in the flickering torchlight of the tavern, was fluttering around Martin’s greatsword. It hovered for a moment, as though ensuring it had their attention, then landed neatly on its hilt.

For a moment, Tim and Sasha merely stared. Then, at the same moment, they looked at each other.

“Is that . . . ?” Tim started to say. He was trying not to let himself feel too hopeful, yet.

Sasha nodded. “I think so.”

The moth, as though in confirmation, silently beat its wings at them.

“Is Martin alright?” Tim asked. “Is he alive?” He was talking to a moth, but he supposed that compared to everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, this wasn’t all that bizarre.

The moth beat its wings again for a moment, then fluttered around the hilt in a corkscrew pattern. Tim supposed that was as much of a yes as they were going to get.

“Thank goodness,” Sasha murmured, her shoulders slumping, losing tension that Tim hadn’t noticed had been there.

“Thank Martin’s angel,” Tim said, and he was too relieved to care if he’d meant it to be sarcastic or not. Under the table, his leg had finally gone limp.

Sasha laughed, clearly just as relieved, and raised her nearly-empty mug. “Here’s to Martin’s angel, then.”

Tim raised his empty one. “To Martin’s angel.”

As Sasha swallowed the last of her ale, Tim added, “And here’s to giving our benevolent benefactor a piece of our minds, the next chance we get.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a plan,” Sasha said, grinning.

“First, we get Martin back. Then, we make an appointment with our dear Lord Elias Bouchard.” Tim flashed a grin back at Sasha. “I really hope he takes walk-ins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you so much for reading!
> 
> As you can probably tell, this story isn't over yet and this series will continue! I am planning for the next fic to be a oneshot, with some important plot-related stuff, but mostly it will be lighter, fluffier fare like the earlier fics in this series. After that, we'll get back to more heavy plot stuff.
> 
> Thank you all so much again for reading and enjoying this series, writing this AU has brought me so much joy these past couple of months and I'm always thrilled that people are enjoying it too!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [dickwheelie](https://dickwheelie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! I mostly blog about TMA and I post Jmart ficlets there sometimes. Come say hi!


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